The Celtic Riddle

"Why don't we have a look outside?" Alex said, taking my elbow.

"Fine idea," I said gratefully, and Alex and I, throwing caution to the winds, risked the ire of the Byrne family by opening the French doors and stepping outside to the flagstone patio at the back of the house. We stood there soaking up the sun while we waited, carefully sipping cups of tea so strong and hot you could feel it corroding your insides on the way down.

"What a place!" I exclaimed when we were out in the fresh air. Alex nodded.

"What did Byrne mean when he said you'd given him a second chance?" I went on. Alex had told me he'd known Byrne many years before, that's all. In fact, I'd found him a little cagey on the subject, an attitude I was soon to find out was due to a promise he'd made Byrne so long ago.

Alex gestured to me to move away from the house. "I'm not sure how much his family knows of this," he said quietly, "so let's make sure we're well out of earshot." We moved into the gardens, pausing to enjoy the scent of a profusion of rosebushes. "The first time I saw Eamon Byrne he was holding up the bar in a seedy dive in Singapore," Alex began. "My ship was in dry dock for repairs, and so I and the lads had a bit of shore leave. Eamon was drunk, of course, the proverbial drunken Irishman, and a little morose, to boot. Not a happy drunk, but a talkative one. You know how it is, people who want to talk whether you want to listen or not. Went on and on about Ireland, how beautiful it was, but none so fair as the woman he loved and lost, that kind of thing. Real drivel, I thought. In fact, I'd have to say he was a crashing bore. But I went back the next night, same place. The booze was cheap, and they didn't water it down too much. Eamon was there again, just as drunk.

"This time he wasn't nearly as talkative. Just stood there holding up the bar, downing glass after glass of cheap Irish whiskey, crying into his glass. Hard to say, isn't it, which is worse: a talkative drunk or a morose one. The only thing he told me was how he'd let his family, his mother, I think, down. He was a disgrace, really. Smelled bad, and it was not just the booze. Hadn't bathed in days. I just wanted to get rid of him.

"One minute he's got his head on the bar, then, in a flash, he's straightened his back, as if he's reached some resolution, some conclusion, and he staggers off the bar stool and out into the street. I have no idea why I did it, he was so unpleasant, a sixth sense maybe, but I followed him. He walked down to the water and stood for the longest time on the pier, brooding, staring into the water. I was about to pack it in, when suddenly, quick as a wink, he threw himself in. Even in the dim beam from the light at the end of the pier, I could see he couldn't swim. He didn't even try. Just sank like a stone. Well, what was I to do? Just stand there and watch him drown? I went after him."

"Are you saying he couldn't swim, or that he wouldn't?" I interrupted.

"Probably couldn't. A lot of sailors refuse to learn to swim. Figure if they go overboard in the North Atlantic, or somewhere like that, they might as well go straight to the bottom as struggle hopelessly on."

"But you're saying he was trying to kill himself. That it wasn't an accident."

"It was no accident, of that I am certain. It was really hard to find him in the dark, and I can't tell you how heavy he was, but I managed to haul him out. The poor sod was trying to fight me off, but he was too drunk. I dragged him back to a filthy little hotel, him cursing at me-his daughter comes by her choice of language honestly, I must say-put him to bed, and watched over him while he slept. The next day I made him wash, and we had a little chat about life, the one I had from time to time with the young lads on the ship who went somewhat astray, shall we say. We had a terrible row, actually. Somewhat comic, I'd think, in the overall scheme of things, if it wasn't so desperate. Here I was trying to think of reasons why he shouldn't kill himself, and him arguing with me.

"I told him a life was a terrible thing to waste, and he told me his wasn't worth saving. Then I told him he was a coward, doing what he did, no matter what had happened to him. He said it was his life, and up to him what he did with it. I wasn't making too much headway until I noticed he was wearing a small cross around his neck. I told him he'd roast in hell if he died by his own hand. I remember he just looked at me, then said he'd roast in hell for much worse things than that. But it seemed to do the trick. He pulled himself together. In the end, he forgave me for saving him, I guess. He said something to the effect that it wasn't my fault because a man could only go when he was called, and that he hadn't been called that day in Singapore. Nice fatalistic touch, really, the idea that your day of death is preordained. Superstitious people, the Irish, in many ways."

"No hint of what he'd done that was so terrible, then?" I asked.